


The Last Laugh

by bobbiewickham



Series: After the Surprise [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Favourite is used to putting on a happy face, but as the years go on and new lovers show up and old friends come back, she starts to question that habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Laugh

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to genarti and pilferingapples for beta-reading, encouragement and general awesomeness.

After Blachevelle ‘surprised’ her, Favourite decided to be careful. 

She had laughed with great energy after she read the men’s note. She had joked, and drunk to Tholomyès, and cried, with the utmost sincerity, “Death to Blachevelle!” She had affixed her smile to her face—until she said farewell to the other girls, and turned away from them to hurry home.

She was earlier than her usual time. There was no Blachevelle to keep her out late. When she reached her street, it was dusk. Favourite’s steps slowed as she walked, swathed in shadows, to her door. From up in the garret came the voice of the actor who lived opposite her, declaiming with his usual zeal, but the sound could not cheer her. He was good for flattery and flirtation, yes, but he had no money.

“Why back so soon, my fine lady?” Her mother’s harsh voice held a suggestive note that made Favourite want to slap her sour face. “Did that student finally tire of you?” 

Favourite clenched her jaw and ignored her, pulling a night-dress out of a drawer and preparing herself for bed. 

“He will soon if he hasn’t yet. They all will, sooner or later. You must know that.”

Why was the miserable old bitch still talking? She could go for days without saying a word to Favourite, and she chose _this_ moment to babble?

“You’re twenty-three, my dear. You have perhaps five, perhaps seven years left. If you’re lucky. Then your skin will wrinkle and your hair will gray and your body will sag, and you won’t be able to gad about like a hussy for your bread, oh, no. These boys won’t want you anymore. No one will. You’ll have to do some honest _work._ ” 

As if _she_ worked. As if she did anything at all but eat Favourite’s food and drink her wine and say spiteful things behind her back.

That night, Favourite lay awake for hours, staring sightless into the empty dark after she snuffed out her candle. In her inward vision, the days washed up before her, each dimmer than the next. Another Blachevelle or Dupont or Leduc, day after day, week after week. Using her as he pleased, then tiring of her, perhaps even leaving her to struggle with a child (no, not that, she wouldn’t allow it) or a disease.

Perhaps one of them would marry her, or at least keep her as a mistress for years, even after he finished his studies, so she would be taken care of—but no. Here in the dark and the quiet, Favourite could not tell herself that. She could not believe it. Here in the dark and the quiet there was only the soft-voiced truth, unmasked by any loud and sparkling lies.

None of them would marry her. Oh, such things did happen—but they were not likely to happen to her. She would be shriveled and ruined and alone, with nothing but her own wits to look to.

 _Very well_ , Favourite told herself. _That’s not so terrible. My wits are good._

The first thing she did was to give up sugar.

Tholomyès had complained about how women loved sugar. Favourite knew that it ruined her teeth, but she used to indulge herself anyway. She loved ices and chocolate and sweets of all kinds.

Rotten teeth were a sign of old age, though, and foul breath repelled lovers. So Favourite stopped. She was merciless with herself on this score. She would never have teeth like that Fantine’s, white like little chips of ice in the winter sun. But at least she wouldn’t lose any more, or have a mouth full of brown painful eyesores. 

She took up her needle again. She would win back the customers she had lost during her time with Blachevelle and the men before him. There would be other men, in the future—and she would keep herself pretty for them and wheedle nice gifts out of them and do as well for herself in that line as she could—but she would have her needle to back her up if they failed her.

Six months after Blachevelle left, Favourite was still earning her living and her mother’s by sewing shirts. She hated every tedious minute of it, but there was no choice. No likely man had crossed her path. Plenty had flirted with her and plied her with wine, but none had seemed willing to truly take up with her for long. Her actor had moved away.

One winter’s day, she found herself standing outside a hat shop that was seeking a girl to work inside. She went in, spoke to the proprietor, and found herself with a job that would pay more regularly than her sewing. She could still sew when she was not working at the shop, but she would have this, as well. And she could meet people here, not like when she was sewing alone in her room. 

The work at the shop was more grueling than she had expected. Still, it was better than days spent sewing alone, or with only her mother for company. Favourite stored up money, and with it, good spirits. Blachevelle may have conspired to play a joke on her, but she would be the one laughing in the end, when she was rich. She could have plenty to eat every day and keep her mother with no trouble and please no one but herself.

Then, one evening at a ball, she met Lareau.

He was a student newly arrived in Paris. He was no more than twenty years old; his father was a merchant in Marseille. His eyes were wide, deep-set in shadowy hollows, and such a dark brown that they seemed black. His lips were full and his hair was curly and his shoulders were very broad. And he was wild about her.

”Mademoiselle Favourite,” he said to her, the first time they met, “you dance like Venus descended to earth.” She was not quite sure who Venus was—someone Roman, she knew, because Tholomyès had talked of her—but she could tell from Lareau’s voice that this was a compliment, and she smiled.

”Favourite,” Lareau murmured, several meetings later, as he kissed her earlobe, “your scent is intoxicating—you’re driving me out of my senses—I beg of you, don’t deny me—”

Favourite did deny him that time. Eventually, though, she yielded. He was charming and handsome, and she sometimes even enjoyed giving herself to him. Her mother sniffed disapprovingly whenever Favourite stayed out late or spent the night with Lareau. But that was no matter: her mother was always unpleasant, even when Favourite wasn’t going out with men. And for all her sniffs, she never turned down the extra money Favourite brought in.

For Lareau was generous, and his father was rich. Within four months, Favourite had from him a lovely new pelisse, three new dresses and, best of all, a heavy gold necklace and gold bracelet to match. It was very easy to give him what he wanted, to stay up with him late and lie in with him in the morning. When she mentioned that she had to go to work shortly, he clutched her tighter to him by the waist, and said she needn’t work so hard. “I’m taking care of you now,” he said, looking into her eyes.

Favourite had heard such things before. Even so, it was all too easy to almost-believe him, to almost-trust him, and easier still to fall back into bed with him.

After she missed work twice more, once because Lareau begged her to stay with him again and another time because she overslept after staying out late, the hat shop gave her job to someone else. Favourite was unhappy; worse, she was scared. Her mother cackled and scolded, both angry and triumphant. “What do you expect, acting like that? No shop has any use for a lazy slut. You’d better mend your ways if you want to keep a proper job.”

But she still had her needle, and she still had Lareau. She fingered the gold necklace he had given her. It shone under the sun as if it possessed warmth and light itself. This, then, was something: she had Lareau. She had this.

One day, Lareau took her to lunch with his friend Gambert. Gambert brought his new mistress, whose midnight hair, plump face and snub nose looked very familiar—

”Zéphine,” Favourite said, surprised. She had not seen Zéphine in more than two years.

Zéphine had once admired Favourite very much, for having been in England, but now she gave Favourite a hard look, before swiftly replacing it with a smile that did not reveal her teeth. Favourite knew why _that_ was. Zéphine’s teeth were even worse than her own. “Favourite! It is so delightful to see you once more.” She pulled Favourite into a theatrical embrace, which Favourite returned, inwardly scoffing. This was so like Zéphine, to act like she was sweet as sugar in front of the men.

It was so like Zéphine. Favourite had not given Zéphine a thought since the last time they had seen each other. But now it all came back, because this was so like before, with Blachevelle, and with Tholomyès and Fantine, Dahlia and Listolier, Zéphine and Fameuil. Favourite and Lareau saw a good deal of Gambert and Zéphine. They went on outings to the countryside every so often, they danced at balls and drank in cafés, and at night she went to bed with Lareau and Zéphine with Gambert.

One day, Zéphine stopped at Favourite’s apartment before they met Lareau and Gambert at a café. Favourite’s mother remembered her. “Oh, it’s you again,” the old woman said, with a glare and a snort. “You look older, and your face has grown coarse.” Favourite hurried Zéphine out the door: no one should be subjected to Favourite’s mother if they were not tied to her by blood.

“It feels as though nothing has changed,” Zéphine said to Favourite later that day, as they watched Lareau and Gambert arm-wrestle on the café table.

“Nothing has.” Favourite ate another spoonful of her ice, a rare treat she was allowing herself today.

“Some things have. There is no Dahlia. No Fantine. Do you know what happened to them?”

“No, not at all! How should I?” She took another spoonful, and savored the coolness of the ice as it slipped down her throat. 

Zéphine, off in her own thoughts, kept talking. “I’ve seen Dahlia once or twice, but not for more than a year now. And nothing of Fantine, not since…well, not since around the time of that ‘surprise,’ truly.”

“That was an excellent joke. I still laugh at it,” Favourite said, feeling as though she ought to say it. Zéphine remained silent.

“I don’t,” Zéphine said finally. “I didn’t even at the time. I just pretended. It was awful, them making a joke of us like that.” Favourite, uncomfortable, concentrated on scraping up the last bit of her ice.

It hardly mattered whether those two other girls were there—it was much the same, and it was very regular and predictable, and Favourite was content.

But one night it was different. Lareau brought her home and there, in his bedroom, were Gambert and Zéphine.

Favourite turned to Lareau, puzzled. His mouth turned upwards. It was a gentle smile, a knowing smile. Favourite felt like a fool: whatever Lareau knew, she did not.

He tipped her chin up with two fingers. “Gambert and I thought it would be charming to watch the two of you together.”

Favourite had heard of such things, but never done them. “Why?” 

”Twice the beauty, my love.” Lareau smiled again, sweet and slow. “Two pretty ladies, their loveliness intertwined and complementary—what man with any soul could resist?”

Favourite shrugged, and looked at Zéphine, who was sitting on the bed with her eyes downcast. “Zéphine says she is willing,” said Gambert, “aren’t you, darling?”

“I’m both willing and darling, I daresay,” Zéphine said, demurely, but with a hint of sauciness. Zéphine had always been skilled at—well, at _that_. Favourite couldn’t put a name to exactly what it was, this particular kind of coquetry that combined submission with just enough spice to keep the men interested. It was Zéphine’s métier.

Favourite did not especially relish the thought of kissing Zéphine—or doing anything else with her, she didn’t know what exactly Lareau wanted—but it sounded no worse than other things he might ask for. She shrugged again, and allowed her coat to slide off.

Zéphine’s lips were smooth and cool, and her hands rather stronger than Favourite had imagined. She clutched Favourite’s shoulders in a painful grip. Favourite, startled, gasped; the kiss became open-mouthed.

Favourite liked it rather better than she thought she would. Zéphine was good at this. She knew the dance as well as Favourite herself and could match Favourite step for step. Seconds passed, then Favourite stopped counting. Her eyes had fallen shut. She knew nothing but Zéphine’s heat and breath, her clever tongue and grasping hands—and then she felt a pressure on her waist, drawing her away.

”What…” Favourite could not form the question. The air was suddenly cold around her.

“That was lovely, my dear, a very thrilling show.” Lareau said, smiling broadly and kissing her forehead. “And now it’s time for you to pay attention to me.”

Favourite allowed Lareau to lay her down, her head falling onto the pillows. He leaned over her, and past his head, she saw Gambert ushering Zéphine into the sitting room, and shutting the door. She made a diligent effort to smile as Lareau began to undo her dress.

It was strange, seeing Zéphine after that. Favourite wondered if Lareau would want them to do it again, but he never asked.

She realized, with a shock, that she was _disappointed_. What foolishness! But she was. “Has Gambert said anything to you about—that night?” she asked Zéphine, with some caution, two weeks afterwards.

Zéphine looked up at Favourite from under her thick lashes, and gave her a slight smile. “Not a word,” she said brightly.

They never spoke of it again, and behaved exactly as before.

In 1823, almost four years after she took up with Lareau, she found a note from him with her portress.

He had graduated, the note said. He had finished his studies and left for Marseille that morning. Once there, he would marry the daughter of a friend of his parents’. She was not to write to him. He was hers sincerely, etc.

Favourite sat down on the bed. She looked to where her sewing basket sat in the corner, long-forgotten, and cursed herself. She had _sworn_ to herself—she had _decided…_

Despite all her best efforts she felt the tears start in her eyes. She fought them before realizing it was no use, and finally gave herself over to them. It was all right. She would cry until she was dry of tears, and then she could begin again. She had jewelry she could pawn until she won back some customers for her sewing.

It would be all right; she would sell her jewelry and sew, and she would be all right. She clung to her pillow and wept, until her breath came easier and she reached the still silence that always comes at the center of a storm of sobs.

After three days, during which Favourite had spent less time sewing than she had hoped (hoped! For sewing! This was what she’d come to!) and pawned her gold bracelet, she heard a knock on her door in the evening.

Her mother glared at her, which she ignored as she made her way to the door. She was not expecting anyone, least of all Zéphine, who stood there with red eyes, stringy hair and a wet coat. Favourite glanced at the window and saw that it was raining.

“Gambert left me. He’s gone back to Provence.”

Favourite laughed. “And? What of it?”

“I—I—” Zéphine peered inside. “Can I come in?”

Favourite wanted her gone, but stepped back to allow her in without a word.

Her mother got to her feet with an exasperated puff of a sigh. “I’m going to talk to Céleste,” she said, giving Zéphine a look of disdain, and stomped out of the apartment.

Favourite turned to Zéphine. “Well? What is it?”

Zéphine bit her lip. “I came to ask if I could stay the night.” When Favourite just stared at her, she burst out: “My rent was due three days ago. Gambert pays it, usually, but now—and I don’t have the money—my things are at my neighbor’s apartment, but they don’t have a place for me to sleep…I wandered in the rain for three hours before I came here. Just the night, please, Favourite—”

Favourite wanted to say no, but something stopped her. Perhaps it was the memory of the surprise, or the kiss, or of the many hours shared in cafés and at balls and on outings. Zéphine was something to her. She had felt something like it, and yet unlike it, the day her mother had appeared in Paris. There was no blood tie here, no hope of family or a place to belong, but still—Zéphine was...something. A friend? Not that. There was no such thing, not truly. But something. 

“Very well,” Favourite said shortly.

At night she could hear Zéphine muffling her weeping as she lay next to Favourite. Favourite felt something odd, something she rarely felt; after a moment or two, she decided that it was pity. What would happen to Zéphine now? Favourite felt sure that she was as ill-used to her needle as Favourite herself by this time. And with no money, nothing to pawn or sell…

The next morning the sun rose with swiftness and fury, with no gentle preamble of pale rays and soft glows. It seemed to Favourite, lying with her face buried in her pillow, that the world turned from muted lead to flaming gold within moments. She tried to shut her eyes against it. But it was no use, and finally she drew herself up, turning to look at Zéphine.

Zéphine was motionless; her brown cheeks, though shrouded in her black hair, were visibly flushed. Impulsively, Favourite stretched out a hand to feel her forehead. It was hot, hotter than a cup of coffee or hot wine. She remembered suddenly that Zéphine had been out for hours in the rain yesterday.

Zéphine’s breaths were weak, a timid rise and fall of the chest, barely causing the blanket to move. For perhaps the first time in her remembered life, Favourite felt afraid for another.

“She’s ill, isn’t she?”

Favourite started. She hadn’t realized her mother was awake. “I think so,” she said curtly. She found herself in even less of a humor to tolerate her mother’s unpleasantness than usual.

But her mother said nothing, merely set herself to making tea.

Zéphine woke several minutes later, coughing furiously, and in dire need of the tea. She seized it with trembling hands. “What’s happening?” Zéphine demanded, looking from Favourite to her mother with glassy eyes.

Favourite could only shrug. “I don’t know,” she said, “but you should rest. Don’t worry, just try to be still.”

When Zéphine began coughing up blood, Favourite’s mother shook her head.

“What do you mean by shaking your head?” Her mother kept silent, and Favourite repeated the question, her voice going shrill and insistent.

Zéphine pushed herself up to a sitting position. “It’s serious, that’s what she means. Am I—is it—”

“Sshh,” said Favourite, glaring at her mother, and gently guiding Zéphine back down on the bed. “Never mind her. I’m sure it’s nothing so bad.”

But the next day Zéphine began to gasp for breath, each gasp fiercer and yet feebler than the next, until finally she stopped. Her head sank back into the pillow, never to rise again.

A Christian burial and a public grave—that was what Favourite could give Zéphine, nothing more. She stood by Zéphine’s body as the priest recited his words, not paying any particular attention. She suspected the priest wasn’t paying any particular attention, either, so why should she? Instead she prayed. She wasn’t sure she was doing it right, but she prayed. If God were kind, as the churches all swore he was, then surely he would take care of Zéphine, and see that she was happy. 

Sewing work was hard to come by, for some time afterwards, but Favourite managed enough to survive. She still hated it fervently. She hated staring at the little stitches, forcing her hand to move with the required patience and precision. She hated the needle-pricks and calluses that marred her hands now.

She thought of Dahlia, with her carefully kept hands, and felt a pang she could not identify.

Favourite looked for work in shops, but had little success: she had no reference, since the hat shop had packed her off for missing her work. Still, she kept searching for such work—and, with somewhat more vigor, for a man.

But men were not so easily found as they had been, somehow. They did not like her as much or as readily. One young banker confessed to her, rather drunkenly, that she was too ‘world-weary,’ that her eyes told him she knew too much, and that this was unsettling. 

“Too much about what?” Favourite did her best to keep the edge out of her voice.

“Oh—” The banker gestured expansively. “ _Life_ ,” he said. “Life and its wickedness—and—and—its _smallness_. You know it very well, Mademoiselle Favourite. It’s painful to love someone who despises you.” Then he grinned. “Of course, I never shy away from pain, if it comes from the experience of love—” He made as if to kiss her, and Favourite, dispirited, allowed it. But nothing came of it. Nothing came of any of them.

She went on like that for what seemed like an infinite period. In 1827, Favourite was thirty-three, and her future was still blank and uncertain—or perhaps all too certain, containing nothing but the needle, and a small room to share with a curdled, disagreeable mother. She had no company except a couple of women she sometimes sewed with, who were tolerable enough.

She had taken to reading newspapers from time to time. She could read. She was not ignorant like most of the other girls she knew. And she liked to do it. It made her feel like the world was bigger, like she possessed a part of it. She liked reading each word out loud, in the privacy of her apartment while her mother was out gossiping, hearing how they sounded. She liked the antics of the politicians, and the thrill of deciphering the insults the newspapers flung at them, sometimes coded with clever puns and suggestive caricatures. She liked hearing people talk about affairs, she discovered, in the streets and in the cafés—though she had little time for such things now, since she had no young man, and her days were wedded to her needle. The things she read of mostly made her angry: they were such fools, the lot of them, the ministers and the deputies. Such fools, and such scoundrels too. 

She found herself having opinions. Sometimes they were new, and she would have to think them out carefully to put them into words. Sometimes they were things she had always thought, but hadn’t known she’d thought. Favourite was particularly annoyed when they gave some convents the right to own property and take donations again. They claimed they would only let nuns do this, but it was a short step from nuns to monks and priests, and Favourite didn’t like nuns in any case. She disliked them and their ugly habits and their cold, pinch-faced judgment, as if they thought she was a loose woman, a sinner, a whore. Priests and nuns and monks were like her mother—so pious, so devoted, so insufferable. She didn’t want them getting anything they wanted. 

Reading newspapers proved useful as well as entertaining. She was unsurprised when she stepped out for a stroll one November evening, cold and dim, to see the city in an uproar. Everyone was waiting for the results of the parliamentary elections. People were milling about, starting fights, shouting at policemen, and sending up the cry of “Down with Villèle!” 

Favourite had spent the whole day, from the earliest light, bent over her table sewing shirts. She had nothing else to do, nothing to call her back to her home, and she needed to stretch her legs after a full day’s worth of sewing, so she joined the crowds. She paid little attention to where she went. It was good to be outside, to breathe the air, to walk. Her legs and back had gone stiff and weak; now they were relaxed and invigorated. Her fingers had become cramped and her wrists sore; now her hands hung freely at her sides.

She was passing a dark, narrow alley when she heard the sounds of a scuffle. Her curiosity came to life. She left the procession to peer into the alley. A large policeman was struggling with a young man who wore a waistcoat that was bright pink and clung to his body tightly. A ragged girl of about ten or eleven years was watching them with wide, avid eyes. When the young man tripped up the gendarme, making him stagger clumsily, the gamine burst into giggles.

The gendarme, still clutching the young man by the throat, lost his temper and yelled at the child, “Shut up, you little slut, or I’ll thrash you.”

Favourite clenched her fists. The rage roiled within her. Not rage at this—this brat was nothing to her, these words no worse than many she heard daily—but old rage, weathered but still well-preserved, stored up and festering, seeping through the chinks in her pleasant front, waiting for any chance to flood outwards and crash like the waves of a storm-riddled sea. Obeying a long-suppressed impulse, she bent, picked up a rock, and flung it, with all the force in her arm, at the gendarme’s head.

The rock whistled as it flew through the air. It made a pleasing _thunk_ as it connected with the gendarme—not his head, her aim was not true, but with his shoulder.

The gendarme yelped with pain, and turned to look at her, loosening his grip on the young man, who took the opportunity to knock him down. The gamine, meanwhile, looked around, and scuttled away.

For one moment, Favourite simply stood, breathing hard, but then the young man tugged her elbow. They both ran, as the gendarme began to pull himself up.

They halted at a street corner some distance away, hidden from the gendarme by several turns in the road and the crowds on the streets. Favourite was panting hard and had a stitch in her side, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t felt exhilaration like this since—since—she couldn’t remember when. Perhaps on one of her last outings to the country, when she would slip ahead of her friends, and run and jump and breathe the fresh air. But even that wasn’t quite like _this_ , whatever this was—this feeling of vigor, of strength. In that moment Favourite felt the world was hers.

Her bedazzled reverie was broken by the young man’s laugh. “Well!” He came up to her, grinning broadly. His voice was deep and throaty, and his shoulders were very broad. “Thank you, Mademoiselle. That was an excellent throw!”

Favourite, still breathless, felt herself smile—a wide, toothy, unplanned smile. She laughed. Her mouth gaped open; her voice rang out, loud and shrill and fierce. She felt her face move in ways that it never had in the past when she would force a light flirtatious chuckle at a man's wit. 

“My name is Bahorel,” the young man said, giving her a very flattering look that held something she could not recognize. “Guillaume Bahorel. I’m a student, in a manner of speaking. May I have the honor of knowing who you are, Mademoiselle?”

“My name is Favourite,” she said.

“Ah!” Bahorel said. “You are well-named, I must admit.”

A silly thing to say, but Favourite forgave him for it, and agreed readily when he asked for her address, and for her promise to dine with him when he returned to Paris in a few months. He was leaving, he said, on some sort of business—he did not say what. Favourite did not ask. Nor did she truly expect him to find her again.

It was a surprise, therefore, when in February of 1828, he called at her apartment. A pleasant surprise. Favourite was still alone—no husband, no young man to flatter and coddle her—and she would soon be too old to hope for one. Her days were dreary, taken up with sewing, with the one or two equally dreary women who kept her company. Poor company—they were just drudges like herself, and so they could not interest her, though they talked much among themselves about their own lives and loves—but it was better than nothing.

Bahorel and his flame-colored waistcoat at her door were very welcome. Her mother’s small inquisitive eyes followed them as they left. Favourite did not need to turn back to see that her mouth was pursed into a narrow, contemptuous line.

Their conversation while dining was typical. He threw out jokes, rather better crafted and more risqué than those of most students; she made puns herself and laughed on cue. He seemed rather bored by the end of it, which sent a thrill of worry through Favourite, a worry that was only partly about the loss of a potential source of money. When Bahorel bent to brush her lips in a polite farewell kiss at the restaurant, she acted on an urge as wild and unexpected as a sudden spring breeze: she pulled him closer to her and kissed him back with the desperation and yearning and fury of years, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, taking his lower lip between her teeth.

When she drew back, Bahorel’s eyes were cloudy, his chest was heaving, and he no longer looked bored in the slightest. Without intending to, Favourite smiled; as Bahorel seized her arm and pulled her towards a passing fiacre, her smile grew into a victorious crow of laughter.

Bahorel’s apartment was well-furnished, though full of odd and clashing colors, and surprisingly neat. But Favourite only had a moment to look around before Bahorel pushed her hard against the wall. Favourite’s mind usually went elsewhere while her body was occupied in the bedroom. Now, both mind and body were fully there and painfully alive. Somehow she and Bahorel had changed positions with respect to the wall, and she was forcing him against it with the heels of her hands against his shoulders; he was undoing her dress with a total unconcern for her buttons; they had not stopped kissing and she could not imagine that they ever would; she had no idea how much time had passed, nor did she care. 

The next morning’s first light found her sore and worn out and blissful, so much so that she drowsily felt as though she should be worried.

She began to sit up, only to feel Bahorel’s arm hook round her waist and pull her back down. She allowed this for a moment, resting on the pillow again, but then a memory struck her and she sat up with sudden force, shrugging off his arm. Lareau had kept her with him and she had lost her job. She had no job now, but she had customers, she had work—Favourite felt a strange terror. Every minute she spent with Bahorel was a loss of money. It could also help her get money, if Bahorel was generous, as she suspected he was, but that would be at his whim.

But—oh, she didn’t want to leave him, not at all—she wanted to stay with him so badly it was shameful.

“What?” Bahorel’s question made her aware that she was staring down at him.

“We must have an agreement.” Favourite tried her best to sound firm, and then worried she sounded like a nag. “I meant—if we are to do this again—”

“If we don’t, it won’t be my fault,” Bahorel said, running his hand idly over her breast. 

“I cannot—I have work, I cannot—” _I cannot be your kept woman and nothing else_ , she might have said, if the words came fluidly to her, or _I cannot rely solely on you, I have tried that and suffered for it_ , but she lacked practice with such honesty. “We must have set times to see each other,” Favourite finally managed. “And—and—I must know what to expect from you.”

Bahorel propped himself up on his elbow to look her in the face. He was silent, which was odd, for him. Favourite felt unaccountably nervous. “We will make a treaty between ourselves,” he finally said, with mock formality. “That is how to prevent war, though you wouldn’t know it from the state of the world, but hopefully you and I can be more sensible than the crowned heads of Europe.” 

Favourite smiled. “We can have our own Holy Alliance.” She wasn’t quite sure what that was—she knew it was something that happened after Bonaparte, some agreement she’d seen mentioned in a newspaper, with Prussia and Russia and Austria, but that was all. Still, she thought it sounded very fine.

Bahorel snorted. “Yes, we can—we will apply _our_ standards for what is holy, and what is not, and do very well with them. I personally feel that the holiest thing we could do right now is to stay put, and carry on much as we did last night, hmm?” When he saw her hesitate, he said, “Or we can hammer out the precise terms of the treaty, and you can return to your work, and we can meet again when it’s convenient for us both.”

Favourite wanted to get the understanding clear, but she also wanted to fall back into Bahorel’s arms, and she didn’t want to annoy him. “We can make our ‘treaty’ later,” she said, and let him pull her back down.

They did make their treaty some weeks later, after they had seen each other more often. The terms were simple. They were to see each other twice a week and no more. He was not to demand her company when she had a great deal of work. She was not to interfere with his “business,” as he called it—which, as far as Favourite could tell, was political troublemaking. She was not to see other men. He was not to see other girls. And, most importantly for Favourite, he was to spend a set sum per month on an allowance and gifts for her; she was not to nag or wheedle for anything beyond that.

Favourite hoped the gifts would be jewelry, as they would be the easiest to sell afterwards, but she felt it would be wise not to insist on that just yet. She could drop hints later, perhaps. For now, she could move into better lodgings, and wear pretty clothes once more.

Bahorel, Favourite soon discovered, was not like the other students she had been with at all. He was to them as absinthe to watered-down wine. His pet subjects included not only clothes, drink and women—though he could prattle on for ages about those—but also strange things like riots, secret meetings he wouldn’t tell her much about, his political opinions (which seemed to consist mostly of encouraging more riots), stealing corpses, communing with the moon in graveyards (some poet friend of his had this idea, and Bahorel had gone along for a lark), and why the church was corrupt and tyrannical. Favourite was very much inclined to agree with him on the last part. According to the church, she was a miserable sinner, but what else was she to do? She enjoyed talking to him of such matters, and he seemed to like it too. 

Bahorel had scars on his knuckles. From time to time he would turn up with a new bruise on his jaw, or a cut above his eye. At first, Favourite considered these marks ugly, but after a very short while she began to find them exciting. She enjoyed marking him herself, digging her nails into his shoulders as they kissed, or leaving bite-marks on his neck. Bahorel went wild when she did that. His style of love-making was almost like fighting. Favourite discovered that she liked a fight.

But she couldn’t fight _too_ much. The warning voice in the back of her head told her to keep him happy, and so in the daylight she smiled. At night she shoved and bit and clawed, but in the daylight she smiled and laughed and was unyieldingly pleasant.

When she got angry at Bahorel—or at her mother, who did not grow softer with age, and who twitted her constantly about her fading looks and her lack of morals, or at the world—she pushed the anger back, and stored it up, and drew it out again at night. At night there was some measure of honesty, more than Favourite was accustomed to in her dealings with men. Women were different—they didn’t matter as much, and so could be told the truth—but men had to be stroked and sated with lies. Except Bahorel, and even he could only be told the truth at night, and not with words.

“I like that you’re older,” Bahorel told her one time.

“Older than _who_?” Favourite blurted out before she could control herself. Beneath her embarrassment, she could feel the seed of terror. She had told herself she could pass for twenty-six or twenty-seven, which was a little younger than Bahorel. If she truly looked her age, or God forbid, older—

“Older than me,” Bahorel said, grinning at her, as if pleased with himself. “Older than most of the grisettes who flirt with us no-good students. Now, don’t sulk at me, my dear. It’s better. It means you’ve seen some of the world. It makes you sweet and ripe—the green fruits are sour.”

Favourite, taking her cue from his telling her not to sulk, produced a smile—but later that night, she took him with a fury fueled by dread. In the morning he seemed happy, but Favourite noticed that he never brought up her age again, and that he gave her furtive looks, from time to time.

One day, she caught him with a handkerchief that plainly belonged to a woman, and was not hers. She bit her lip. Blachevelle had liked her to be possessive, but she didn’t know if Bahorel would like that at all. She didn’t think so. He was not a man to enjoy being restricted.

He was watching her warily. “It was just the once, Favourite,” he said. “I won’t do it again, I swear it.”

Favourite took a breath. “What do I care? You do what you want.” She tried to sound airy and flippant, but her voice was tight and her smile felt like a grimace.

“I know you are angry,” Bahorel said.

“I am not angry, not in the least.” This time her smile was more convincing. That night, her nails clawed into his back until she drew blood.

The next morning Bahorel was out of bed and fully dressed by the time Favourite woke up. He looked very serious, which was a strange look on his face.

“You were furious with me. No,” Bahorel said, interrupting her before she could speak, “don’t deny it, and for God’s sake, don’t laugh it off. You were boiling.”

Favourite didn’t know what to say. To admit it would risk displeasing him, but it would also expose her. She didn’t want to be exposed. The thought made her sick. She lifted her chin, and produced a smile. “Don’t be silly. It was nothing.” 

“Of course it was. You simply don’t want to tell the truth—you want to pretend you’re always happy, that everything is well.” Bahorel’s voice rose.

Favourite, obeying the habit of years, forced a light laugh. “My dear—”

“Yes, go on, laugh. All you do is laugh. I could strike you in the face and you would smile. There is no honesty in you, no truth.”

Truth. Who could tell the truth? Maybe Bahorel could, with his fists and his money and his manhood, but Favourite’s only weapons were lies and laughter.

“Come now, don’t be so angry,” she said, in a placating voice. “I smile because I am happy—what of it?”

Bahorel scowled. When he enjoyed being angry—when he worked himself into a thundering rage for the fun of it—he blustered and yelled, but when his anger was in earnest and unwilling, he would scowl quietly. 

“I am going out,” he said, grabbing his coat and hat. He gave the door a pettish slam as he left. 

Favourite sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands. She did not know what to make of this.

She heard nothing from Bahorel for a week. Her mother noticed that Favourite was home now at nights. Her reaction was less vile than Favourite had feared. When she asked if there was anything wrong between Favourite and “that young man,” she didn’t sound malicious. She sounded worried—worried, perhaps, for her own comfort, which depended on Favourite’s income. Favourite wondered sourly if her mother had realized that it was a poor idea to crow over the misfortunes of the daughter who fed and clothed her. 

After making inquiries at the Café Musain, Favourite found that Bahorel had left Paris. “We expect him back in a day or two,” said Joly, a friend of Bahorel’s. Favourite had met him before. He had a good-natured air that Favourite found very appealing. 

But she was too distraught to enjoy that at the moment. Bahorel had left Paris without telling her. Yes, he would be back soon, but would he want anything to do with her? Favourite was afraid: afraid of the conversation they would have when he got back, afraid they wouldn’t talk at all, that he would just disappear, afraid that she’d never find another man, afraid her life would be an endless repetition of the needle going in and out of cloth by the dim light of a candle. Was she even Bahorel’s mistress anymore? Favourite feared not.

But Joly was here, and he was a pleasant distraction from these thoughts. He was very sympathetic to her distress over Bahorel, and began to complain to her about a girl. Her name was Musichetta, which Favourite thought was pretty but very odd.

“I always thought Bahorel was so lucky,” Joly said, staring into his glass. “I told him so, you know. It’s so pleasant to have a companion who laughs, who is cheerful and lively, who is good-humored. So much better than a capricious woman who sulks and jerks you this way and that with her moods, who sharpens her tongue on you whenever she has a fit of pique—”

Favourite smiled and nodded. At some point the conversation became about magnets, which Favourite found more interesting and also rather funny. Joly did all sorts of silly things because of magnetism and it was amusing to hear about them. He seemed a sweet sort of boy, who was trying to do all kinds of things to please this Musichetta girl, who remained resolutely unimpressed.

“It’s no surprise to me you like magnets,” Favourite said, lowering her lashes. “You have a natural understanding of the laws of attraction.”

Joly cleared his throat and blushed. “The last time Musichetta and I spoke, she told me to stay away from her…I mean, it would not be an infidelity if I—if we—that is to say, if Bahorel throws away his good fortune, why shouldn’t I embrace it?” 

Favourite went to his apartment knowing it was foolish. She didn’t know him well—he would think her loose for yielding so quickly—but she was angry at Bahorel, and fearful of her fate, and Joly was such a relief, such a delight. His apartment was a chaotic pile of books and papers and strange objects, like bones, and varicolored liquids in jars. His balding friend, who lived with Joly, and who Favourite had seen around the Musain, was not there, and they were free to do as they pleased.

Joly, with an air of being very pleased with himself, raised her skirt and petticoat and knelt between her legs. He paused for a moment, hesitating, and for that one moment he looked so very young that Favourite almost pulled her skirt down and ran out the door. She resisted the impulse, trying to relax as Joly began to kiss her inner thighs. Favourite soon saw, or rather _felt_ , that he had no idea what he was doing. 

It was pleasant enough, of course. It could hardly be other than pleasant unless he accidentally _bit_ her there—and even then, she’d heard of girls who enjoyed that kind of biting, though it always sounded much too painful for Favourite’s tastes. 

Pleasant, but never sharp enough, never targeted enough, and as Joly began to turn his head upward every so often to give her glances full of worry and determination, Favourite realized that she would have to put an end to it, because Joly certainly wasn’t able to. 

“Oh!” Favourite said, making her voice throaty and hoarse, and convulsing her body deliberately. 

Joly, looking pleased, dragged himself up to kiss her on the mouth. He had believed it, then. Favourite was relieved. Now all that remained was to see to his pleasure, and then she could go to sleep.

He was sweet, and he likely was generous, but Favourite still was not unhappy to see him return to his Musichetta. He did not call on her again. She was not disappointed.

In any case, Bahorel returned to Paris. When he knocked on her door, the first words out of Favourite’s mouth were, “I thought you were done with me. I spent a night with Joly.” She spat out the words defiantly.

Bahorel frowned. “I know. Joly confessed to me when he was drunk.”

“What was I to do?” Favourite flared. “You took up with another girl, and then you left Paris without telling me—”

“Only for a week,” Bahorel interjected, with a queer twist of his mouth. “So you _were_ angry. What happened with Joly—that was revenge.”

“I—” Favourite felt caught out and misunderstood at the same time, which was very annoying. 

“You were!” Bahorel crowed, but there was something more than triumph in his voice, something that sounded like relief.

Favourite pouted. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want to be a lawyer? You’re questioning me like one.” 

Bahorel took offense at that jab; the ensuing quarrel ended only when they fell into bed together once more, which Favourite had sorely missed. But after they were done, when they were lying there recovering their breath, she was still not sure where they stood.

“Wait,” she called, as Bahorel was about to leave. She did not want to ask, but she had to know. “Is—are—is our ‘treaty’ still in effect, then?”

Bahorel smiled. “Yes, if you still want it to be.”

There was still a chill, a distance between them that hadn’t been there before, and it worried Favourite, but other than that they went on as usual. Bahorel occupied her evenings and nights once more; she was freed from her mother’s poor company and her own loneliness and fear.

Then something happened to shatter the ordinariness of her days. One day Favourite went to the Musain to meet Bahorel, a thing she did not often do. She had just sat down when a workingman came in and began chatting with Joly and the strange-looking dark fellow in the very odd clothes—Prouvaire, she thought his name was. She had never seen the worker before. He was small and stocky, and had a smooth face that made him look very young. Somehow, though he was a stranger, he looked oddly familiar, in a nagging sort of way that made Favourite feel like she had forgotten something.

Then the worker laughed. The laugh was sudden; it seemed to take the man himself by surprise. He threw back his head, and his face caught the candle-light, and Favourite thought, with a thrill of astonishment: _Dahlia._

This man was Dahlia. Favourite had not seen Dahlia for years, but she was certain. For whatever reason, Dahlia was pretending to be a man.

Favourite nearly laughed out loud. What a mad idea! She was grudgingly impressed with Dahlia for thinking of it.

At that juncture, Joly’s bald friend—whose name Favourite had forgotten—came in. He strolled up to Favourite. “Bahorel sends his apologies, Mademoiselle,” said the bald friend, “but he will be unable to meet you—he got caught up in something, and he promises he will give you a full explanation later.”

Favourite was not happy about this, but she decided to make the most of it. “That’s no trouble,” she said to the bald one, “but can you please tell me—who is that man?”

The bald one whistled. “Bahorel should keep a closer eye on you! He misses one appointment with you, and you are already eyeing other fellows, hmm? Well, I approve of your attitude. There is no sense in waiting for a dullard who doesn’t appreciate you and letting the rose wither on the bush—”

Favourite rolled her eyes, smilingly disengaged herself from the bald one (what _was_ his name?), and walked over to the corner where Joly, Prouvaire and Dahlia were standing. She was determined to find out exactly what Dahlia was playing at.

“Good afternoon, Joly,” she said, and was gratified to see Joly blush slightly. She didn’t want him, but it was pleasant to see him still affected by the memory of their encounter.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Er. I believe you know Prouvaire, don’t you? Prouvaire, this is Bahorel’s friend, Favourite.”

“And who is your other friend?” Favourite nodded at Dahlia, whose eyes widened as they fixed on her. 

“Feuilly,” Dahlia said, her voice steady. “My name is Feuilly.”

“Feuilly is our cosmopolitan,” Joly said, and began to babble about things ‘Feuilly’ was interested in, like Italy and Poland and Greece, and the Congress of Vienna.

As Joly talked, Favourite could see the story written out on Dahlia’s face—oh, not the whole thing, but enough of it. Enough to know that Joly did not know she was a woman, that Prouvaire did not know, that none of these students knew. Favourite smiled.

Her smile only grew wider when she saw Dahlia flinch. Favourite sidled closer to her. “Why, Monsieur Feuilly,” she said, putting a teasing lilt into her voice, “you do not look like you are a student, you look like a hardworking man. Why do you waste your time with these vagabonds? Come, take me for lunch, since Bahorel isn’t here, and you can tell me about Italy—I found it so fascinating.” 

“I—why, yes, Mademoiselle, I would be delighted,” Dahlia said, looking like a trapped rat, as Favourite laced her arm through the other girl’s.

Joly lifted his eyebrows and grinned at Dahlia. Prouvaire gave a soft chuckle, and leaned over to whisper something in Dahlia’s ear that made Dahlia turn red.

Favourite steered her out of the Musain and towards another, quieter café nearby, chattering blithely all the while. 

“Very well,” Dahlia said, when they had sat down in an isolated corner. She had evidently recovered her composure and looked almost amused, to Favourite’s annoyance. “We may as well come to it. What do you want, Favourite?”

This did not suit Favourite at all. She had looked forward to a few minutes of toying with her prey while it wriggled and squirmed. It was a disappointment to find the prey staring at her coolly, as if bored.

“Want? My dear Dahlia—or, should I say, my dear M. Feuilly—what could I possibly want, other than to talk to an old friend? And of course, to find out why you’ve adopted this new name. I’m simply mad with curiosity. You must tell me.”

“Hmm,” Dahlia said, skeptical. “Well—do I really have to explain why?”

Favourite stared, uncomprehending. “Do you imagine that I understand this madness?” She gestured with her hand, indicating Dahlia’s clothes.

“Madness,” Dahlia repeated. “You call what I do madness.” She looked at Favourite as if Favourite were a child, or a fool. “Tell me, Favourite. What has your life been, these past few years since we last knew each other? You’ve lived as a woman, sewing clothes, I’d wager, and running after men. How have you enjoyed it?” 

Favourite fidgeted, and glared. “You don’t seem to be avoiding men yourself.”

“No. I don’t need to, since they don’t think I’m a grisette. I’m a fan painter now—it’s easier on the hands, that’s why I started it, though it’s a more difficult trade to enter than sewing—” Favourite glanced down at Dahlia’s hands, almost as smooth and well-kept as they had been ten years ago, and smiled to herself: Dahlia was still vain of them, whether she was pretending to be a man or not. “—and as a man I get paid more than I would as a woman. I can go where I please, do what I please. I can—” Here Dahlia broke off, as if she were about to say more than she ought. “I can work for social improvement and education,” she continued, in a more controlled voice, “and I can discuss what matters most in the world, rather than throwing my life away on nonsense and drudgery.” 

“Oh!” Favourite broke in, confident now that she had an opening for scorn. “What matters most in the world! Like Italy, or Poland, or other places you’ve never seen.” 

She had meant to be ironic, but Dahlia willfully took her in earnest. “Yes. What could be more important? I want to know the whole world. Why be satisfied with only a sliver of it? I want all of it. I want to work in my small way to deliver all of it. I won’t be content with anything less.”

The heat in Dahlia’s voice took Favourite aback. She had not heard Dahlia sound so insistent on anything since…well, perhaps not ever. Lost for a reply, Favourite found herself thinking of what it felt like to read newspapers. She could be huddled in her room with only the weak light of a candle, but with a newspaper she felt somehow bigger and stronger, like the world was hers, like she was part of it and it was in her grasp. 

“You know what I mean,” Dahlia said. “I can see that you do.”

Dahlia had always been sharp. It was she, Favourite recalled, who had guessed that the “surprise” so many years ago had been the idea of Tholomyès. Dahlia must have been right about that. It had his stink all over it. It was spiteful, cruel, and cowardly—and not amusing, either. “It wasn’t amusing in the least,” Favourite said, and it was only when she saw Dahlia’s confused expression that she realized she’d spoken aloud. “The ‘surprise.’ What Blachevelle and Listolier and Tholomyès and Fameuil all did—don’t you remember?” It was strange to say it, to hear her own voice form the words. But it was true. It had not been amusing.

Dahlia snorted. “Of course I do. And of course it wasn’t amusing. How could it be? We all pretended, but of course it wasn’t.” She paused. “Listolier. And Fameuil! Now, that does take me back. I wonder what happened to Zéphine?” Then, observing Favourite’s start: “What happened? Tell me!”

“She died,” Favourite said, her voice sounding small. “She fell sick, and—she died.” 

Dahlia went silent. She stared at the table without saying a word for a few minutes, before Favourite, feeling the quiet grow too heavy and awkward, interrupted her reverie. “How did you manage your—disguise?” 

She had to repeat her question, and when she did, Dahlia shrugged. “When I was at the orphanage, there was a boy named Henri Feuilly. A dear friend, closer than a brother. When he died, I took his papers—and his trousers. Even when I knew you, even in 1817, I was sometimes Henri Feuilly. I kept that name to use as it suited me, and…well, eventually it stopped suiting me to be Dahlia at all.” She smiled. “I’m used to changing names as it pleases me. Dahlia isn’t the name I was born with, either. It was only ever a _nom de guerre._ I thought it sounded very seductive. But then I tired of being seductive. It’s boring, as you may have found.”

“Isn’t it hard to lie all the time? How can you prevent the truth from slipping out? I could never do it.”

Dahlia looked astonished. “You ask me that? You?”

Favourite stared back, uncomprehending.

“You, Favourite? You ask me how I can bear to lie? As if you don’t lie all the time, every day!”

Favourite, feeling an unpleasant lurch within, scowled. “Don’t you dare preach at me. My little fibs are nothing like what you’re doing.”

“I’m not preaching,” said Dahlia. “I don’t judge, I merely observe. But my lies are nothing to—well, I will not talk about yours, since it makes you angry. Let us say that my lies now are nothing compared to the lies I told when you knew me last. Now I lie about one thing that doesn’t matter, so I can tell the truth about everything else that does.”

Still irritated, Favourite said, “If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t have to lie about it.” 

“Other people think it matters. That’s why I must lie—but that doesn’t mean it truly matters, just that other people can be fools.”

It was Favourite’s turn to fall silent, glowering, while Dahlia looked at her with an unreadable expression before saying, “So Zéphine is dead.”

She sounded wistful, and Favourite turned on her savagely. “You didn’t even truly like her. You were just pretending, to please the men, because you knew you and she looked pretty together.” 

Dahlia did not deny it. “Even so,” she said. “I never had a sister—but I was so thrown together with Zéphine, because of our men, that she was almost like one, for a short while.”

Favourite had never even wanted a sister. They sounded very tiresome.

“Whatever happened to that other one?” Dahlia spoke suddenly. “The Blonde, the one who got upset over the dead horse? Oh, what was her name—” 

“Fantine,” said Favourite, the name rising up to her out of the depths of memory. “I don’t know. I never saw her again.” 

They said nothing, for a moment, before Favourite recalled her purpose with a jolt. “What would your friends say if they knew the truth about you, I wonder?”

Dahlia went satisfyingly pale. Favourite smiled, and pressed her advantage. “They don’t bring women into the Musain’s back-room, as you must know. Bahorel says it’s not a place for flirtation. He says it’s for serious matters only, though knowing Bahorel as I do, he must chatter about his waistcoats a great deal even while he’s in there. Still—no women. Except you, but they don’t know that, not yet.”

“It doesn’t matter. I am not there for flirtation,” Dahlia said robustly, but Favourite could see the weakness there.

“Oh, yes, of course, and I’m sure they’ll all understand that once you explain that to them, after I tell them the truth.”

“And now we come back to my first question. What do you want?” Dahlia looked at her with scorn. Favourite felt ashamed of herself, and angry at Dahlia for making her feel that way. “I have no money, you know. I make hardly three francs a day. I’m sure Bahorel gives you more than that as an allowance, even without trinkets and presents and such.” 

“Well, he’s not stingy,” Favourite said, feeling rather foolish all of a sudden, as though she had failed to properly think out her plans. What _did_ she want, other than to gloat that she knew Dahlia’s secret? “And, well. I won’t demand anything of you now, but just remember that I kept your secret, and that you owe me, if I ever need your help.” That was something, anyway. At the very least it gave her something to say in that very moment, but it was also useful for the future—who knew when Bahorel would tire of her, or when her list of customers would run short? And heaven forbid both happened at the same time. Dahlia could help, perhaps lend her money. Three francs a day—that was less than what she got from Bahorel, but much more than she could make sewing.

Dahlia gave her an appraising look, tinged with pity. “Very well.”

At first, they saw very little of each other. Favourite was mostly occupied with work or with Bahorel, and Dahlia had her own work and her politics and her reading to keep her very busy. 

Then, one evening when she was at home with her mother, she heard a sharp tap on her door. Her mother’s eyes darted up, suspicious and malicious and amused all at once, as she always was whenever Favourite had a visitor.

Dahlia was at the door, breathless and red-faced, as if she had been running, and holding a package. Favourite let her in. Her mother stared at Dahlia, openly curious. Favourite remembered, uneasily, that her mother had recognized Zéphine when they had met again some years before—but it was more than ten years now since her mother had last seen Dahlia, and Dahlia was in men’s clothes, with short hair. Favourite introduced Dahlia as ‘M. Feuilly,’ before quickly drawing her into Favourite’s bedroom. Her mother gave no sign of recognition and made no sound at all, but simply leveled a scornful look at Favourite before Favourite shut the door in her face.

“I need you to keep this here,” Dahlia said, as soon as they had privacy, holding out the package. Favourite’s mother was in the other room, she knew, straining to hear. “Keep it, but don’t wear it—just leave it.”

”This” was a dress—a plain, gray, severe thing. “Why is this dress so important?”

“I can’t tell you,” Dahlia said, frowning. “It’s a secret. But Bahorel suggested asking you to keep it. He said to ask you to please do it for his sake. He’d be here himself, but the gendarmes were after us and he ran off in another direction—” 

Favourite scowled. Here she was, in possession of Dahlia’s secret, with Dahlia firmly in her clutches, and yet somehow Dahlia was demanding favors of _her_ , without so much as an explanation. “That won’t do. I’ll keep it, but I need to know why.” 

Dahlia sighed. “A list, sewn into the dress.”

“A list of what?”

“Allies,” said Dahlia. “Contacts in Paris and Lyon. Their names, their occupations, sometimes their known haunts or places of employment. Favourite, you _must not tell_ \--”

Favourite felt a thrill of excitement upon Dahlia’s explanation, but it was irritating to be told to keep silent, like she was a babbling child. “Come now, Dahlia, you know I know how to keep your secrets.” 

Dahlia shook her head. “This is even more important. You must tell no one. Not even your mother.”

Favourite laughed. “I tell her nothing, so this will be no different. But let me remind you, that’s two secrets you owe me for keeping.”

“My count is different,” Dahlia said, raising her chin. “If you didn’t do this, Bahorel would get angry at you. He might even leave you, and then where would your allowance be? Where would _you_ be? These rooms are much better than any you could afford on your own.” Dahlia smiled, seeing Favourite’s dismay. “Come to think of it, even if you told him I’m a woman…he wouldn’t be at all pleased with me, and he’d probably begin to treat me very differently, but he would be unhappy with you as well. Telling my secret would be the act of a treacherous snake. I think that would anger him more than a woman sneaking into secret meetings, don’t you?” 

Feeling caught, Favourite fumbled for a reply. “I don’t think you truly want to put that idea to the test. What if you’re wrong?” Dahlia kept her face motionless, but Favourite knew she’d scored a hit. “And,” Favourite went on, having an inspiration, “I could always tell your employer, remember.”

Dahlia let out a hiss. “Would you really do that?” Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, and accusatory. Favourite knew the answer to Dahlia’s question was ‘yes,’ but suddenly she wished it wasn’t. She looked away, and Dahlia began to smile.

“I’m giving you two gifts,” Favourite barreled on, to cover her confusion. “Remember it, and—”

“I think I’m giving you the gift,” Dahlia interrupted, folding her arms. “Tell the truth, Favourite, don’t you like _doing_ something?”

Favourite couldn’t answer that question either. She could only stare dumbly, feeling like she’d been slapped. Dahlia’s smile grew wider, more certain, more triumphant. She looked _knowing_ , and for a moment Favourite hated and loved her for it.

But somehow after that, it felt natural and expected to get more visits from Dahlia. They spoke more than they ever had during the old days with Blachevelle and Listolier. Favourite sometimes felt oddly ashamed that she had less to say than Dahlia. Dahlia could prattle on for ages about Greece and Italy and Poland and the Congress of Vienna, while Favourite, who knew nothing of those subjects, could only listen. The only things she could say were of her sewing (tedious), her mother (still sour and spiteful), the women she sometimes sewed with (pleasant enough but dull), and Bahorel.

“I don’t think I ever asked you—how did you learn to read and write?” Dahlia posed this question one evening, staring into the fire in Favourite’s bedroom. They could hear her mother stomping and bustling in the sitting room. She disapproved of Dahlia’s presence there, not recognizing her or knowing her true sex. Fortunately Bahorel brought Favourite to his rooms when they met, rather than coming to Favourite’s. Her mother was less venomous than she had been, but if she spoke to Bahorel, there was still a chance she might carry tales to him, telling him that Favourite was unfaithful to him with ‘Feuilly.’ Bahorel had never met her mother after the first time he called for her, and Favourite intended to keep it that way.

“I got a student to teach me,” Favourite said after a moment. “I was only fourteen, and I’d just begun to live on my own, and—there was a student. My first one, actually. He taught me, when I kept nagging him to.” She had paid for it the only way she could, back then, but it was worth it.

“Fourteen,” Dahlia said, expressionless.

Favourite shrugged. “Well, yes. How old were you when you began to fend for yourself?”

Dahlia smiled slightly. “Not much older, I suppose. What children we were, and we thought ourselves so wise, so worldly.” She paused for a moment. “What made you want it so badly?”

Favourite could not explain this. She had never put it into words. “I…” She busied herself with her cup of tea, taking a sip while she thought about it. “I wanted to know things. My father was a professor of mathematics, you know—he died, oh, years ago, and I didn't find out until months after, and I didn't weep over it. But he knew things. I wanted to be better, to—to not be low and stupid all my life, to be able to look at something written in a book or in a note and _know_ what it meant. I didn’t want other people to know while I didn’t.” She took another sip of tea. “That’s—that keeps you weak. If you don’t know, then everyone else can lord it over you.”

Dahlia said nothing, but merely turned her gaze back to the fire.

“How did _you_ learn? You didn’t know how to write, not when we knew each other before.” Favourite had been the only one out of the four girls who had known how to write. She remembered this, because she’d been proud of it.

“I taught myself,” Dahlia said. “I got hold of a book, and I taught myself. I was teaching myself even in 1817, but I hadn’t mastered it yet.”

“That must have been difficult.” Favourite had heard tales of people who taught themselves to read, and everyone said it was very hard work.

“It was worth it,” Dahlia said. “Without it, I could do nothing. Nothing for myself, nothing to leave the world after I’m gone.”

Favourite snorted. “What will your reading and writing do for the world, my dear?”

“Words can last,” said Dahlia. “I taught myself to read out of a book whose author died in 1785. Words can last longer than people, even longer than peoples. They can reach the future.”

Favourite almost laughed. “Yes, well, I’m certain _the future_ will be very grateful for your shopping lists and notes to your friends. If the future can read them, since your handwriting looks like pigeon-scratches. But it’s good you learned. It means no one can cheat you, or at least they’ll have a harder time of it.”

“Yes,” Dahlia said, but she sounded absent, and Favourite could tell her thoughts had drifted.

Dahlia was often dreamy like that these days, her head too busy with ideals and nations and peoples to be fussed about what was in front of her. Still, it was good to be friends with her once more, and in earnest this time. Favourite’s life trundled on as usual, but it was slightly brighter, slightly softer.

She did not often encounter Dahlia in public—only on Favourite’s infrequent visits to the Musain or the Corinthe, when sometimes Dahlia would be there, too. The first time it happened after their truce of sorts, Favourite feared it would be strange. She had just seen Dahlia the evening before, in Favourite’s apartment. Dahlia had loosened the bindings on her chest, saying that they were digging into her skin. She had talked of Greece and the ministry, but then they had also talked of their old lovers, of Blachevelle and Listolier and others, too. And now Favourite was to call her ‘Feuilly’ and pretend she was a man? 

To her astonishment, though, Favourite found that it was easy. In the Corinthe, Dahlia still looked the same, sat and walked the same, lifted her chin in the same insistent way when she spoke, and tilted her head to the side when she was listening intently. She was still Dahlia, though here she was also ‘Feuilly,’ and it was no hardship to remember to call her the latter name. Whether she was among others or just with Favourite, Dahlia remained Dahlia. There was something deeply satisfying about that.

Then, within the space of one week, Favourite received two blows from different sides: Bahorel threw her over, or she threw him, and her mother died.

Bahorel had fallen in bed with another girl, _again_ , and this time, when Favourite yelled at him about it, he did not apologize, nor did he find her anger charming. He yelled back, and then he stormed out.

Favourite, despite the urge to run after him and wheedle him into staying, let him go.

Two days later, just when Favourite had dully begun to think of moving to cheaper rooms, her mother began to cough. They were great, hacking coughs that shook her whole body. Favourite almost feared she’d fly apart at the seams, that the coughs would tear her to pieces. For two more days Favourite had no sleep, and no time for her needle, either. She boiled water and made tisanes and broths, she wrapped her mother in blankets, and she clenched up each time she heard another fearsome cough.

It did no good. At dusk on the second day, her mother had one final coughing fit, sank back onto the bed, and fell absolutely still.

Dahlia came with her to the burial. Favourite did not cry. Her mother had abandoned her as a child, and she had grown up almost like an orphan. But when the woman showed up at her door and announced herself, Favourite took her in without blinking. To have a mother meant love and warmth and a place in the world, and it almost didn’t matter that her mother was a spiteful grumbler who never gave her a kind word. Almost. Because she was Favourite’s mother. She was not a stranger to Favourite, and that itself was a near-miracle.

She returned home without thinking, and only realized she had been standing like a statue outside her apartment when she felt Dahlia’s hand on her shoulder. “Favourite?”

She started. “Hmm?”

“I was thinking,” Dahlia said. “I suppose you can’t afford to stay in these rooms anymore?”

“No.” She had not worried about that problem for days; now, it struck her again, while she was too weary to grapple with it.

“I was looking to change lodgings myself, since my landlord’s a shameless swindler,” Dahlia said, “and, well, I had an idea.” She spoke slowly, as if she didn’t like her own idea very much and was reluctant to voice it. “We could join forces. Move in together, share the costs—I can pay more, since I make more.” 

This was a simple idea, one that had been before her very nose. Why hadn’t Favourite thought of it? It would work splendidly, and to Favourite’s advantage. 

“Of course,” Dahlia said, “it will look to everyone like you’re my mistress.”

Favourite snorted, enjoying the irony: she’d be secretly chaste, under the cover of living sinfully. “Do you think Bahorel will get angry at you about that? Taking up with his old mistress?” That was a flattering idea; less pleasant was the thought that Bahorel might be thoroughly indifferent.

“Bahorel is a grown man. He must act like one, not a spoiled little boy.”

Favourite expected living with Dahlia to be pleasant enough, and above all, economical. She did not expect it to be a shocking relief from the slow, eked-out days of sewing. Favourite had sometimes thought the steady motion of the needle, varied only by the times she accidentally pricked her finger, would drive her mad. But it changed everything to have Dahlia to talk to.

Oh, there had been the women she sewed with before, and sometimes she still met them. But Dahlia, who had known her before, whose wild and foolish secret she held, who had known Zéphine, who had come to her mother’s burial, who had been there with her at the ‘surprise’ and who was still here now when they both had changed and weathered so much—it was different to have her, somehow. She did not work from home every day, but sometimes she did, and that was enough. Dahlia would sit painting her fans, in painfully intricate detail, with elegant little brushes and paints that blazed colors like gems. She would not talk much—the work required careful attention—but what little she did speak had her usual fervor. That was enough to lend some light to days that would otherwise be a muddy gray. Favourite would pull the needle and thread through the cloth, and the day would still be long and heavy, but somehow more bearable. 

But as the winter of 1830 turned to spring, Paris quickened and simmered, and Dahlia with it. Polignac was an insufferably pious bigot, in Favourite’s opinion, which Dahlia shared. Yet the king clung to him like a child to its mother, and made his speech defending him, and Dahlia stayed out late at places like the Corinthe and the Musain, talking hotly of the presumption it signified, and whispering discreetly of the opportunities it presented. Two hundred and twenty-one deputies voted to rebuke the king for his choice of ministers, and ominously spoke of the lack of accord between government and people, and Dahlia took to abandoning her work on some days to meet people and compose articles. The government scheduled elections for the end of June, and Dahlia talked of nothing else. The voters would not be fooled by the government’s posturing in Algeria, Dahlia said; they would not accept a tyrannical conquest of a foreign land as a substitute for freedom in France, and they would elect a majority in the Chamber of Deputies that would be hostile to Charles.

“And _then_ what will he do!” Dahlia said, not truly asking a question, simply exulting in the king’s predicament .

Favourite shrugged. “He can do nothing, I suppose,” she said. “He will have to cooperate with the Chamber, at least a little, won’t he?”

Dahlia shook her head. “You know what I think of Article 14. So long as he has the power to make any ordinance he claims is necessary for the security of the state…well, he has an extra shot in his gun.”

Then, in late July, Paris began to boil. The election results came back. The king had lost, and used his extra shot. Dahlia fumed and clenched her fists as she paced the length of their sitting room. “Did you read about the ordinances, Favourite?” Favourite nodded, but this did not stop Dahlia from describing them at great volume. “The number of voters was disgracefully small already, and he’s reduced it further! _And_ he’s reduced the number of deputies in the Chamber. Even the bourgeois in the cities won’t be able to vote anymore. This tyrant won’t even respect _them_ , never mind everyone else. We’ll have a Chamber elected by country aristocrats. He’s bringing back the old regime.”

“That won’t happen,” Favourite said. “He’s mad if he thinks that. No one will stand for it, not now.”

Dahlia set her jaw. “No. We won’t.”

Favourite could see that Dahlia was going to be involved in some riot or some other such dangerous to-do. Still, she was surprised and fearful when Dahlia disappeared on the 27th of July, while crowds were mustering on the streets. Dahlia remained missing the next day, when Favourite heard murmurs about barricades and looted arms shops. She knew Dahlia was in the thick of whatever was happening, and this made her feel faint when she thought of it too much.

To try and stop thinking of it, Favourite stayed indoors and sewed for two whole days. But on the third day she ventured forth, too curious to remain home. The streets were full of chatter, all of it contradictory. Charles had dismissed his ministry, and there was going to be a compromise. No, there was going to be a republic. No, Louis-Philippe was going to be Lieutenant-Governor of France. No, the throne would go to the grandson of Charles, or to the son of Napoleon.

Full of chatter, but no Dahlia to be found, no matter how many people Favourite asked about a fan painter named Feuilly.

On July 31st, Favourite pushed and elbowed her way into the crowds in front of the Hôtel de Ville, and watched as Louis-Philippe’s white horse rode up in front of the hall, buoyed by waves of Parisians. Some yelled encouragement; others cried, “Long live the Republic!” and whenever Favourite heard that, her neck would crane to see if it was Dahlia who shouted it.

Dahlia did not appear until Louis-Philippe stood on the balcony, carrying the tricolor flag, and embraced Lafayette. Amid the cheers, Favourite heard a furious voice in her ear: “Can you believe it?”

“Dah—” Favourite cut herself off, and turned, as best as she could—people were pressing in around her so that she could hardly move. “Feuilly,” she said, correcting herself. There was almost no distance between Dahlia and her—they were so close that Favourite could smell nothing but the stink of a person who had gone several days without washing, so close that she almost didn’t see the bloody stain and the bandage on Dahlia’s chest.

“It isn’t serious,” Dahlia said, shrugging her shoulders, and turning her fierce gaze back to the balcony.

Hours later, as the crowds dispersed, Dahlia fell silent, and remained so until they reached home. But once they were inside, and Favourite expressed doubt that this new king would truly be any better than the old, Dahlia could not contain herself. In a voice hoarse from shouting, she began to rail bitterly about theft and treachery and the betrayal of republican principles by a bourgeois monarch and his banker friends, while Favourite made noises of agreement and sympathy and encouraged her to change her clothes.

It was only later, when Dahlia had no more words for her outrage, that Favourite realized something. “Dahlia, who dressed your wound for you?”

Dahlia smiled, or perhaps grimaced; it was difficult to say. “Joly.”

“Joly!”

“Yes.”

“But—it’s your _chest_ that was hurt, does he—”

“Yes, he knows,” Dahlia said, sounding resigned and relieved all at once. “There’s no more secret. He knows. He and Enjolras, they both know.”

Enjolras—the blond one, one of the leaders, in fact the chief of them all. Favourite had never spoken to him—he wasn’t to her tastes—but she knew he was unaccountably fond of Dahlia. Except that was wrong. He was fond of ‘Feuilly,’ not of Dahlia. He had only just learned that Dahlia existed. 

“What did they say? They’re not throwing you out of their little group, are they?” Favourite felt clenched and panicky. Her nails dug into her palms. For a brief and comical moment, she wondered when, exactly, she had gone from threatening Dahlia’s secret to wishing to protect it. But no matter when or why the change had happened, there it was. 

“No.” Dahlia smiled—a clear smile this time. “I suppose the timing was lucky. I had just saved Combeferre’s life, you see—on the barricades. You know who Combeferre is, don’t you? The other medical student, the one who talks like a professor. He fell on the wrong side, stabbed in the leg. I pulled him to safety, but got grazed in the chest while I was doing it.”

“And then…?”

“And then, well. Joly began to fuss over us both as soon as we were both back there. He was more worried about Combeferre, since he was the worse off—but once Combeferre was settled, Joly had my shirt and my bindings off before I could say a word in protest.” Dahlia’s eyes went distant, as if she was off in another world. “I was still too stunned, anyway. Battle does that to you. I could hardly tell what was going on until I saw Joly blush, and then I came back to myself.”

Favourite laughed, despite the gravity of the subject. “Oh, my dear. I can just imagine. What did Joly say?”

“Nothing very sensible,” Dahlia said, beginning to laugh as well. “I suppose it was amusing, looking back. He turned as red as a rose, and looked away very fast, and began to stammer out words in no particular order. And Enjolras was watching Combeferre nearby—Combeferre was unconscious—and Enjolras heard Joly making a fuss, and came over to see what was the matter, and, well.”

“And what did that one say?”

“Nothing,” Dahlia said, looking more serious. “He turned away, too, and sat staring into the sky. It was night, and the moon was out. Joly was prattling on about how it wasn’t safe for me and I should get away before I got hurt even worse, and worrying aloud if seeing me unclothed was an infidelity to his mistress, but Enjolras said nothing at all, not until I asked him not to tell anyone, and if we could go on as before.”

“And he _agreed_?”

“Yes,” said Dahlia. “He was silent for a long time, but he finally agreed. He swore by all his ideals to keep my secret, and to act like nothing had changed. Joly did the same, though he was still fussing, but Joly always fusses.”

“They truly were not angry?” Favourite couldn’t believe it. Men always got angry when you did anything they didn’t expect.

"They were shocked, I suppose,” Dahlia said. “But no, not angry. Or if they were, they did not show it. Enjolras gave an eloquent little speech about...I'm not sure what, exactly, but he mentioned Joan of Arc. Then he told me I was exceptionally brave and a credit to my sex." 

Favourite giggled.

After a moment, Dahlia joined her. "He meant well," Dahlia said, between chuckles.

"Yes, I suppose he did."

Dahlia fell silent then, looking very pensive. Favourite waited for her to speak; she could tell that something more was troubling Dahlia, and Dahlia was not one to fret quietly for long. “I wonder…” Dahlia finally spoke, but then trailed off, shaking her head.

“What?”

“I wonder if I could tell the rest of them,” Dahlia said slowly.

Favourite laughed, startled. “Are you mad, Dahlia? Of course you’re mad, or else you wouldn’t be doing this masquerade at all, but I thought you had enough sense to know you have to be discreet.”

“By discreet you mean dishonest,” Dahlia snapped. “I’m lying to them every day, Favourite. I fought beside them on the barricades. If I’d died there, they would have been the last faces I saw. But they don’t even know who I am.” 

“Yes, they do. Don’t you remember what you said years ago? When I asked how you could lie? You said you lied about one thing that doesn’t matter—”

“I know what I said. I meant it, too. I still mean it. But—” Dahlia sighed. “I hate deceiving my friends. I wish I didn’t have to tell any lies, whether they matter or not.” 

Favourite shrugged, growing impatient. “It’s they who are making the lie necessary, not you. Well—they and the world and the rules. But it’s not your fault. I don’t know why you’re worrying about it.”

“Yes,” Dahlia said, her eyes far away again. “The world and the rules. You know, Combeferre talks a great deal about women’s education and how women shouldn’t be shut out of politics—how politics needs the pure and motherly influence of women—”

“Don’t be a fool, Dahlia.” Favourite shook her head, wondering how a woman clever enough to teach herself to read and pass herself off as a man could be so silly. “If he’s talking about pure and motherly influence, well, most men would be frightened by the notion of their mothers and wives bearing arms. And there’s nothing pure about it, either. You’ve been running around in trousers at all hours of the night, in the company of men of all classes. To anyone’s eyes, you’re even less virtuous now than you were as Listolier’s mistress.” Dahlia flinched, and Favourite regretted her harshness, but Dahlia needed to hear it. Still, she made her voice gentler when she said, “I’ve never spoken to this Combeferre, so maybe he would be welcoming. I don’t know. But how do you imagine what's-his-name—the bald one, who's always so impudent—”

Dahlia's eyes narrowed. "Lesgle."

"Yes, that one. Always flirting. Most men aren't as cold as your Enjolras, or as sweet and faithful as Joly. Do you think for one moment that a man like Lesgle will treat you no differently if he learns the truth?"

"Bossuet—Lesgle—likes chasing girls, but he has no malice in him. He will not treat me in any way I tell him I don't like." There was a note in Dahlia's voice, uncertain but hopeful, that made Favourite want to shake her. 

Instead, she pressed on. "Oh? And what about that Grantaire fellow, hmm? Can you say the same for him? Especially when he's drunk? If you tell him you don't like being grabbed and handled like a street whore, will he obey? Will he even remember?"

Dahlia sagged against her chair, defeated. “I just wish...” She sighed. “Well. I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ve kept on this long, and at least now I can be honest with two of them.”

Favourite, wanting to cheer Dahlia up, thought back on their conversation, and smiled when she remembered something. "A credit to your sex, is that what Enjolras said? I wonder if he’s falling in love with you, Dahlia." Dahlia raised her eyes heavenwards, as if praying to be spared the stupidity of this conversation, but Favourite disregarded her and continued. "He seemed half in love with you even when he thought you were a man! That would be quite a coup for you, to be the one to break such a cold and stony heart."

Dahlia flushed, and ducked her head. This did not escape Favourite, who laughed in delight. "Or maybe you wouldn't break it? My, my, this is just like a love story, about an orphan girl and a handsome prince—"

Dahlia recovered herself. "I have no use for love stories, or for princes," she said curtly, "and neither does Enjolras."

Favourite just shook her head. Dahlia was a fool if she didn't see the opportunity, and Favourite knew Dahlia was no fool, for all her wild larks. This Enjolras was different from other rich students. He was just unconventional enough that he might marry a grisette who played silly tricks like dressing up in men's clothes, if he loved her. And what a fine ending that would be for Dahlia! She'd want for nothing, and she might be persuaded to show some generosity to an old friend like Favourite. Most people abandoned their old friends once they married up, of course, but Dahlia liked to think herself above such distinctions, and perhaps she was. So perhaps she would not forget Favourite so quickly. 

After the July Revolution, though, Dahlia had other matters on her mind than marriage. So did Favourite. As Feuilly’s ‘mistress,’ no one courted her, and she had no need to run after anyone. She had the security of a male companion, with none of the inconvenience, and it was unbelievably glorious. She stopped flirting altogether; there was no need. She was tired of it now. The young students held no interest for her. She was thirty-six years old now, and even if she could attract an awkward stripling of twenty-one, what could she want with him? There were older men, bankers and notaries and lawyers, but she didn’t want to bother with them. She didn’t need to exert herself to hold Dahlia’s attention the way she would a man’s, and so she didn’t need to flirt with other men as a reserve plan in case Dahlia left her. She was free.

Oh, she was still tied to the needle, but that was not so desperate, because of Dahlia’s income. She was free to sleep when she was tired, to wake when she was rested, to eat what she found tasty, to wear what she liked, to take walks on a whim, to spend her evenings chatting quietly or reading or simply doing nothing. She felt untethered, like a cloud drifting lazily through the sky, soaked in the sun and the breeze and owing nothing to anyone. There had been nothing in her life like it before she lived with Dahlia. Favourite vowed that from now on her life would be nothing else. 

Dahlia, though, grew sterner and sadder. She was gone more often, putting off work in favor of practicing with various weapons, going to late-night meetings, taking circuitous routes home to avoid being followed by spies. Her fiery conviction seemed to have cooled and hardened into unbreakable resolve. She spoke of the same subjects as always, and with the same passion, but with even more determination, and yet less hope that change would come quickly. Sometimes it made Favourite melancholy to think about it, but Dahlia never became completely morose.

“I am not made for pessimism,” Dahlia said, when Favourite hinted at the subject one night. “Things did not go our way in 1830, but we will make sure they do some day. Look at the revolt in Lyon. We may lose, but no defeat is forever, and each battle inspires the next.”

Favourite felt a cold shock of dread at those words. The dread thickened and twisted steadily within her over many months, until cholera struck Paris, and it seemed the whole city joined in her fear. No one knew how this sickness spread, or how to cure it, or who was responsible for it. The rumors spread fast but shed no light: it was a government plot, some claimed, while others believed it a divine judgment. One of the women Favourite sewed with died. Two friends of Dahlia’s died. Another sewing companion fell sick, and so did her son, though they both hung on to their lives with grim persistence. The poor suffered the worst, but even the most powerful were helpless against this disease.

Favourite remained healthy, though she felt a shock of terror every time she experienced something that could be a symptom. “Stop it,” Dahlia told her one evening, when Favourite worried aloud that she was feeling much thirstier than she usually did. “You’re starting to sound like Joly. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Dahlia was healthy too, and didn’t seem at all concerned about falling sick. She was busier with her political work than ever, these days, which did nothing to make Favourite more at ease. From everything Dahlia said, Favourite knew there would be another upheaval, and that Dahlia would get involved, and that it would be soon.

“Tomorrow,” Favourite said to Dahlia, as they sat drinking tea on the night before General Lamarque’s funeral, “if anything does happen—you’ll be fighting, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Dahlia said. Then she frowned. “You’ll be all right, won’t you? I mean, if—I keep a little money in the drawer, you know, and I think you’ve got a little saved yourself—”

“A little.” In truth it was almost nothing, but Favourite was accustomed to lying. “Enough. You needn’t worry, my dear. But still, try to stay alive, hmm?” Her voice shook despite her best efforts. Dahlia, looking surprised, opened her mouth to say something, closed it without a word, and took Favourite’s hand instead. Favourite clasped it tightly, averting her eyes.

The next morning, Dahlia was gone before Favourite woke. Favourite sewed for most of the day, though she went outside to ask if there was any word, and heard that barricades had gone up. She went to bed in an empty apartment. The next morning she rose early and sewed until two in the afternoon, when she felt a crippling pain in her stomach, and had to take to her bed.

She hadn’t been sick like this in years, not since she was a child. Was this cholera, then? _Don’t be stupid,_ Favourite told herself, _you probably just ate some bad meat,_ but she couldn’t kill the fear. She lay rigidly in bed for hours, skin hot and stomach churning, until she fell asleep just as the sun set.

When Favourite woke, it was daylight again. By the height of the sun, she could see that it was late morning. She felt no more pain. Her head was clear. It could not be cholera, then.

Dahlia was not at home. She had left the morning of June 5th; it was now June 7th. Favourite dressed herself and hurried out into the street.

The revolt had been crushed, she found out soon enough; the rebels rounded up, or killed, though some escaped. Some escaped. Favourite clutched that thought and held it close. Some escaped.

She made her way to the Corinthe, hoping to run into someone who knew Dahlia or her friends. The place was a shambles, broken and bloody as a corpse. She did not see Mme Hucheloup, but Matelote, who worked there and was cleaning up, gave her a wide-eyed look. “I’m not sure,” she said, in the tone of voice that meant she knew but did not want to say. Favourite tried to fight the sense that she was plummeting. She grabbed the top of a chair for support. “Ask Musichetta,” Matelote said suddenly, sounding relieved. “I think she must know. Do you know her? She’s the one over there.”

Musichetta—Favourite had heard that name before, though she couldn’t remember when. She went to the woman Matelote had pointed out, a grisette some ten years younger than Favourite, and, reluctantly, repeated her question.

“Feuilly and Bahorel?” Musichetta looked at her with dull, unfocused eyes. “They died. They were at the barricade here. Almost everyone here died. Only five escaped.”

This could not be. Bahorel was impossible to hurt. He had been in so many riots, so many fights, he had dodged so many fists and so many shots and come through with scarcely a scratch—it could not happen.

And Dahlia, that couldn’t be true either. Favourite would not believe it. “How do you know? Maybe they’re hiding from the police, lying low somewhere—”

“I know,” Musichetta said, raising her voice high enough to draw a stare from Matelote. Favourite felt caught in a sharp winter wind, despite the irreverent June sun. “I know. They’re dead.”

“You spoke to one of the five who escaped, then?”

“Yes.” Musichetta sank in her chair, as if exhausted from the effort of speaking loudly a moment before. “One of them—a man named Fournier—told me.”

“How do you know this Fournier? Why did he tell you this?”

Musichetta gave her a look that might have been a glare, but was too tired to fully achieve that effect. “He knew that two of my—friends—also died on the barricade. Joly and Lesgle. They were friends with Feuilly and Bahorel, and neither Feuilly nor Bahorel were among those who escaped. Fournier told me who did. It wasn’t them.”

“Joly,” Favourite said, feeling like she’d been struck. The name ‘Musichetta’—of course. No wonder it had sounded familiar.

Musichetta’s chin went up sharply. “You knew him?”

“I—a little, yes.” Her head was whirling. Dahlia was dead. Dahlia had been killed. This was no longer a fear. This was a fact. Someone had speared Dahlia on a bayonet, or blown her apart with grapeshot, or punctured her with a bullet from a pistol. Perhaps it had been quick—or perhaps she’d coughed up blood until she drowned in it. Perhaps she’d lost a limb, or taken a bullet to the thigh or the shoulder. Then she would have faded in agony on the filthy ground, while the others fought around her and over her, as heedless of her as of the stones beneath their feet. The scarlet pictures bloomed in her mind, one after the next. Was Dahlia afraid, at the end? Was she disheartened? Did she cry, or try to flee, or was she staunch to the last? And Bahorel, too. What had killed _him_? What could do such a thing? No mere bullet or blade, surely—but no, he was just a man, after all. Just a man with powerful fists and powerful bluster, a man who could die like any other. Had he been at Dahlia’s side? Had Joly, or Enjolras, the ones who knew her secret? Had anyone, or was she alone? Favourite, feeling the sudden wetness on her face, hoped Dahlia hadn’t been alone.

“I’m sorry,” Musichetta said, sounding as though she didn’t much care. “Was one of them your man, then?”

“No. Well, yes. In a way. I lived with D—Feuilly.” She knew Musichetta was looking at her oddly now, but she could not bring herself to worry about it. What did it matter anyway? Dahlia was dead; her secret couldn’t harm her now.

She could not say how long she sat there with Musichetta, amid the rubble, while the sky went from blue to orange and pink and then to gray. She felt her own tears come, and heard Musichetta stifle a sob from time to time, and looked around the Corinthe and wondered where exactly it had happened. Where had Dahlia fallen? What was the last thing she saw? And what would Favourite do now?

“I should go,” Musichetta said, making no move. “I’ve wasted a day. I could have been sewing. The rent still needs paying, and I still need to eat. Isn’t that awful?” She gave a high-pitched laugh. “My lovers die, and I can’t weep because I need to sew shirts. Probably need it more, now, because I don’t have their money, though Joly swore I’d be taken care of so maybe he left something—” She stopped. “But you have the same trouble, I suppose.”

Dimly Favourite noticed that Musichetta had said _lovers_ , not _lover_ , which was strange and seemed wicked, but who was she to judge? “Yes,” Favourite said. “The exact same.”

“I will have to change my lodgings,” Musichetta said, pulling herself up slowly. “I won’t be able to afford to stay—”

Favourite raised her head. “My rooms are cheap, but—now—well, I could use help to pay their rent. Perhaps—” She didn’t know this Musichetta, but she had few friends besides Dahlia, and Favourite couldn’t bear the thought of living with any of them. This Musichetta at least knew what it was to weep, and yet seemed able to see clearly despite the tears. 

Musichetta looked at her with some relief. “Yes. Perhaps. Tell me your address and I’ll call and we can talk more tomorrow. Right now I feel too tired to think.”

Favourite wrote down the address. She sat there for some time after Musichetta left, before returning unwillingly to her dark and lifeless rooms. There were still fans spread on the table to dry, and a book on Poland. Favourite lay down on her bed, buried her face in the pillow, and tried to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come just yet. She was alone again. She had been here before, but it hurt worse now, after Dahlia, after everything. Still, she had her wits as before, and now her memories too, and she would live, and it would be enough. 


End file.
